We’re All Just Homos Sucking Cock

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Yesterday, after a long time – it’s been over a year since I was there – I went back. I’m not sure why. It was one of those days when you feel the voice calling you, the place beckons, as if there’s a reward waiting for you if you heed, as if something will happen that will make you think: Yes, that’s why I had to go. Usually I feel bidden to the sauna; yesterday it was the sex club just off Tottenham Court Road. Sunday Afternoon Underwear Only. I went earlier than usual. A mixture of eagerness and curiosity.

Mustafa and I hit it off immediately. About 6′, chunky, a bit of hair on his chest, Bengali dark, and he was a good kisser. He had those soft lips; lips that just let go, compliant lips, lips that you know will feel good on your nipple, good around your cock. He’d made the first move, reached out a hand and touched the tip of my nipple. He did the kinds of things that make me fall in love with a man, as if snogging and tit-play were synecdochal to the overall care and seeing-to-my-needs he would provide. If only he’d wanted me to fuck him, things would have been perfect. We’d both just arrived, which meant we weren’t focused on coming, so we locked ourselves in a cubicle (standing room only) and kissed and held each other and sucked cock and worked the nipples, and laughed here and there. Two big men, thick fleshed, chunky, him darker than me, less hairy, and with a beard (only the day before I’d been thinking I was over beards, that they turned me off – in much the same way ex-smokers can get all pissy when someone near them lights a cigarette).

It’s kind of sexy making out in a cubicle that you can’t lie down in. Clandestine, a stolen moment, as if you could be in a bathroom cubicle, and maybe these were the toilets when this dive bar was something else, before it became a safe-haven for us sodomites. It’s hot, in more ways than one. We sweated and kissed and pushed against each other and I spat into his mouth and him into mine and we swallowed it and kept kissing, drinking each other, digging our hands into each other’s backs, holding each other’s heads, every now and then being gentle, him stroking the side of my face. You’re a romantic, I said to him when he did that, and he agreed. He wanted me to suck his cock, but I’m reluctant to do it in places like that; you can’t know where a cock has been, how many mouths and arseholes have enveloped it, so my official policy is to say no. But we’d only just got there – him, too – so I was the first to suck it. When he leaned over and took my cock into his mouth, I stroked his back, the bigness of it, and made my way down to his crack.

Later, after he’d fucked some guy in one of the small rooms, after I’d walked around somewhat detached from it all, while guys floated about in their underwear, fluffing up their cocks, or held onto them sternly for others to see, while guys got down on their knees to suck dick, while men peeped through the wooden slats into the tiny rooms where others were fucking… It’s a strange place. A strange place, but one where I feel so completely at home. A place I feel relaxed in and part of. It’s a bit like when I find myself around ultra-Orthodox Jewish men, and for those moments that we’re in the same place, we are the same, all Jews, no differences. For those moments in the sex club, we’re all just homos sucking cock. But it’s more than that, simpler: We are men together. It’s also more complicated, deeper: We are safe from society, free of danger, and the room is full of the potential for love. That’s what it’s like. And I thought: If only we could be kind to each other all of the time, the world would be a good place. And then I saw Mustafa again, and we hung out on the big leather sofa, his arm around my shoulder, his nipple in my mouth.